If I changed the look of this site, would anyone care?
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Chocolaty Goodness
I love Cocoa Pebbles.
I’m not kidding. If Cocoa Pebbles was a woman I’d have pictures of her all over my bedroom and a ‘special’ magazine in the bathroom comprised of sexy shots of her in lingerie, thongs and bikinis. Mmmm… bikinis… Ahem, as I was saying, I just can’t get enough of my Cocoa Pebbles. I’d say I’m addicted except that the word ‘addict’ doesn’t do this level of compulsive need justice.
Cocoa Pebbles, oh how I love thee.
To help you understand my feelings for this cereal, let me tell you what I did for breakfast this morning. Knowing that I was going to eat a delicious bowl of heaven in the form of crunchy, flakey, chocolaty goodness, I went to the cabinet in search of a bowl. Not just any bowl would do, you understand. What I searched for was a Mighty Bowl, a bowl large enough to contain roughly half of an entire box of Cocoa Pebbles cereal and the quarter gallon of milk necessary to make my breakfast complete. Oh, and I also needed a small glass for my orange juice, of course.
Hey, everyone needs vitamins. Even Cocoa Pebbles freaks like me.
So, I searched and searched until I came to the oversized mixing bowls in the bottom of the hardest to reach kitchen cabinet because we never have need of bowls that large unless we’re serving salad to the entire population of Brazil. I stared at them for a few seconds trying to understand what in the world we had them for. I mean, honestly. Who in the world would ever need mixing bowls that could double as baby baths? Throw in an oversized salad spoon and you could probably row some of the bowls across the Hudson River as makeshift rafts! These bowls were huge! They must have been made as soup bowls for giants, or maybe as contact lenses for whales. Any way you looked at it, they were much too large for normal person use.
But they were perfect for my Cocoa Pebbles.
I filled the bowl with half a box of Pebbles and some milk, plopped myself in front of the TV and then spent 20 minutes working my way through it while watching Spike TV’s 007 Days of Bond. It was heaven. And the best part? HoBiscuit was nowhere in sight to admonish me for eating that much crap for breakfast.
Mmmm… admonishment-free sugar high. [drool]
Public Shame
I talk too much.
I’ve got to learn when to keep my big mouth shut. Sometimes I’m lucky enough to hold my tongue when not speaking is the right thing to do, but more often than not I wind up yapping away about the wrong subject and at the worst possible moment in a conversation. This usually leads to public ridicule and derisive laughter, or worse yet, uncomfortable silences. VERY uncomfortable silences.
I’ll give you a quick example;
Coworker #1
“I really hate these clients. No matter what we do, they just keep coming back with more changes. They’re never happy.”Coworker #2
“Yeah. They’re like roaches. No matter what you try they keep coming back to annoy you.”Coworker #3
“Or like a fungus.”GeekMan
“Yeah! Yeah! They’re like dingleberries!”Coworkers #1, 2 & 3
“…”GeekMan
“You know? Dingleberries? The little balls of lint-like fuzz that… ah, get stuck… in your… uhm, butt hair?”[crickets]
GeekMan [hanging head in shame]
“Can I get a do-over? Please?”Coworkers #1, 2 & 3
“Idiot.”
I need a Control-Z for real life, dammit.
Finding FishMan
My brother is officially famous.
Originally, I had a post ready for today about how mutant llamas were creating robotic duplicates of all my friends so they could torment me with petty insults in their diabolical bid to take over the world, but a funny thing happened as I sat down at the computer this morning.
I had an email.
Normally this wouldn’t be a surprise, because I’m such a celebrity and all that, so I’m used to getting 100’s of emails a day from my adoring fans. I was about to file this email away with all the others in the humorously mislabeled folder called ‘Trash’ in my email reading program when I realized there was something different about this particular piece of mail. It took a minute to dawn on me, but when it did I realized that this email didn’t seem to be from one of my millions of adoring fans. I could tell because for the first time ever this wasn’t a helpful email from a fan with news about some penile enlargement pills, online card games, naked pictures of b-list celebrities or even more mail-order anal hamsters packed in cardboard tubes for easy shipping.
What can I say; I like to play “special” games with my pets.
Anywaste, this particular email was from none other than Papaya, my brother FishMan’s wife. In it she mentioned that my brother’s store had gotten a write-up in New York Magazine! The article is short but still sings the praises of my brother’s shop and I couldn’t be prouder. They even mentioned his website, Aquatic Creations, which I must say was designed by the most brilliant, talented, intelligent, gifted, exceptional… and humble, web site designer in the known universe. I hope all of you take a moment of your time to go visit Fishman, either on his website or in person at his shop, and tell him how beautiful and wonderful his website is and how he should do something really, really, really, really nice for the designer this holiday season. Oh, and if you want, you could congratulate him on the NY Magazine thing, too.
But don’t forget to praise that amazingly great, yet modest, designer!
Munchies
I like lunch.
Of all the meals I eat during the day lunch happens to be, if not my favorite, at least in the top five. Possibly even in the top three. Lunch even sounds fun. Truly, it does. Don’t you agree? Come on, say it with me; “Lunch. Lunch, lunch, lunchity-lunch lunch.”
Holy crap. I’m so hungry I could eat my own head.
Petty Jealousy
Too Much Of A Good Thing?
Even when I win, I lose.
Apparently, HoBiscuit’s sister was so happy with our visit to her humble abode that she spread the word to MotherBiscuit, who in turn has extended an invitation for HoBiscuit and me to visit her new home in Phoenix, Arizona. And by ‘extended an invitation’ I mean insisted that we fly out there ASAP and visit or there will be hell to pay in the form of guilt, guilt and more guilt. And HoBiscuit, bless her heart, just can’t handle Momma-guilt like I can.
Makes her break out in hives, you understand.
So, long story short, I’m getting on a plane tomorrow morning at 6am to go for another in-law visit. Bad news is that HoBiscuit and I are already being yelled at for spending too much money on little things like plane tickets and car rentals. Most likely, this spendthrift chastisement won’t end once they realize that we’re planning on driving them to Las Vegas for a night where we’ll stay at THE hotel at Mandalay Bay, see ‘O’ which is a Cirque Du Soleil show and then gamble, GAMBLE, GAMBLE!
Good news is they think I’m a wonderful son-in-law.
Now, I love to gamble. Not stupidly, though. I hate it when people don’t have limits and do stupid things like go to the cash machine after losing a month’s paycheck at the roulette table. Any way you slice it, people who do that need an intervention. You see, what I do is go to the table with a set limit and if I lose it then I consider that money to have been spent on ‘entertainment’ and that’s it. I never go back to the ATM for more money because if I did I’d lose my place at the table. That would be dumb.
Instead, I give my card to HoBiscuit and make her go.
Anywaste, I know you’re all thrilled sad that I’ll be gone for yet another week, but cheer up. I’ll be back on Tuesday the 7th of December with what I can only assume will be fun stories for you to read about my hellish travels to the city of sin with my church-going, god-fearing, bible-study-grouping in-laws who, with their constant barrage of guilt-laden jibs, unhappy frowns at the money we’re spending on them and their forlorn looks of parental disapproval, will no doubt cause HoBiscuit to turn into a neurotic psychopath who will in turn make my life a living hell.
Ah, good times. Good times.
Ann Arbor Is The Place To Be
That is, if you’re The Mighty Geek.
I’m going to visit my in-laws for the Thanksgiving holiday weekend and we all know that can mean only one thing. No, not eating so much turkey, stuffing and cranberry sauce that my bellybutton goes from an ‘innie’ to an ‘outtie’. Nor does it mean that I’ll get to sit in front of the TV all day watching football and screaming at the kids to shut up or I’ll beat them with the buckle side of my belt until their bottoms are so raw they won’t be able to sit down until their kids graduate college…
Stupid, repressed, childhood memories…
Anywaste, what Thanksgiving means to me, and to most other Americans, is Christmas. That’s right, Christmas. It’s not until Thanksgiving that most Americans begin thinking of all the money they’re going to have to spend on presents for friends and family members, most of whom they don’t even really like. And once we start thinking of all that money being sucked out of our bank accounts, we panic. We panic because we’ve been conditioned to show our love and affection for children by bestowing upon them gifts. Not just any gifts either, we’re talking bigger, better, cooler and more enviable gifts than the bratty kids down the block who always seem to get the best toys and then rub it in all the other kids’ faces at school.
And we hateses those kiddies, don’t we Gollum?
So, I’ll be spending this Turkey Day with my new family in Ann Arbor, playing with the kids, eating “home cooked” meals that are actually prepared in a home and not just regular restaurant food that’s called home cooked as a marketing strategy. Then, on Friday, a day that I learned only last night is known as ‘BLACK FRIDAY’, I shall be dragged from my inflatable bed in the guest hallway of my in-law’s home at 4:30am to go shopping. Having never done this before in my life, you cannot possibly imagine my excitement in anticipation of hour upon grueling hour of madhouse shopping in the crowded malls of the suburbs of America. Oh, and hey, if I’m not here on Monday, it’s not because I don’t love you guys.
It’s because I’m in jail for mass murder.
Happy Thanksgiving!
CSI = Can’t See It
It was like a kick in the nads.
It was almost as if we were in the room with Grissom and Brass as they finally confronted the woman who was once a man and whom they thought was responsible for the deaths of several men who wished to be women. They were ‘grilling’ her, trying to get her to admit what she had done, but she was playing the self-righteous helper of the helpless card to the hilt and HoBiscuit and I were on the edge of our seats waiting for her to fall. Then, just as Brass was about to oh-so-nonchalantly lean on the table and dispense justice in the form of a witty remark that would make the evildoer break down and cry…
The TV goes dark.
WHAT?! Our cries of despair were loud enough to cause the lights in the ceiling to rattle. I immediately attempted to switch channels, for my feeble man-mind somehow believed that merely flipping to a different channel would fix whatever ailed the little demons inside the TV that were in charge of reception for CBS. But, what’s this?! There’s nothing on NBC either? Frantic now, I start flipping channels like I was a 10 year veteran chef at IHOP;
2 CBS – Darkness
3 TNT – Picture!
4 NBC – A chasm of dark doom
5 Fox – Black as my heart
6 Nick – Spongebob in all his glory
7 ABC – A black hole sucking the life from my body
8 TBS – Tha’hr be reception, Matey
9 UPN – The antithesis of content
10 CNN – News galore!
11 WB – There may have been something there, but really, who cares?
I was in shock. All of our local channels were gone. Poof, just like that. The only thing that made sense to me was that Osama bin Laden and his Al-Qaeda cronies had managed to take over the broadcast satellite and, by reversing the polarity of the onboard flux capacitor’s, had set into action their plan of world domination through television disruption in the household of The Mighty Geek. Now I’m in tears, as I desperately search the internet in the vain hope of finding out what happened in the final 10 minutes of CSI. All while Osama sits in his cave, safe and sound and laughing maniacally at my helplessness as the giant, unseen wheels of his evil plan to take over the world begin turning.
…
Dammit, what the FRICK happened on CSI?!
Hello World
Life is good. And bad.
My kitchen is finally finished; I’ll have some pictures for you later this week but for now, let’s just say that HoBiscuit and I are sacrificing small animals to the remodeling gods in thanks for finally getting those lousy contractors out of our apartment. If you’re confused as to why we would be elbow deep in squirrel guts and chicken eyeballs but still be whistling a happy tune, then you should read this past post of mine and edjumacate ya’self.
And then there’s Halo 2…
Yes, my copy finally arrived and I couldn’t be more happy. And pissed off. Why am I pissed off? Well, I’m so glad you asked. You see, I’ve been waiting for this game for over two years and now that I finally have it in my possession I want nothing more than to rip off its plastic wrapper and play it until my eyes bleed and my sphincter implodes.
But I can’t.
No, not because I don’t know how to remove the plastic wrapper, although that is a good guess. It’s because I promised my friends that I wouldn’t play Halo 2 until they could all come over and we could play it together because they’re all tired of the way I smash them to pieces in the original Halo. It seems that all these years of getting my anus wiped when playing against Bread has been good for me when it comes time to give my friends the smackdown. They get Halo Loser Pains and I prescribe Rocket Launcher Robitussin.
Call me Dr. “Boom-Boom” Spartan, Baby! Yeah, Baby. YEAH!
But now I have to wait until they can all come over before I’m actually allowed to even OPEN the damn game. And even worse, they’re under no restrictions whatsoever and they’re all practicing their Halo 2 skilz 24/7 just so they can gang up on me and kill me whenever we do get together.
Have I mentioned that I hate waiting?